We Haven't Had Dessert Yet
by Blonde Cecile
Summary: Executive assistant manager Phoebe has a busy schedule this Friday, but Gerald does not want to wait until weekend to start having fun. One-shot. Phoebe/Gerald.


Late Valentine's Day fic.

**Title:** We Haven't Had Dessert Yet  
**Pairing:** Phoebe/Gerald (with a slice of Helga/Arnold)  
**Rating:** Mature for sexuality  
**Words:** ~3100  
**Disclaimer:** I don't make money off Hey Arnold, it belongs to Craig Bartlett.  
**Summary:** Executive assistant manager Phoebe has a busy schedule this Friday, but Gerald does not want to wait until weekend to start having fun.  
**A/N:** So, this is actually the abridged version. The full NC-17 version can be found on my livejournal. You're welcome to go look if you're so inclined (and above the age of 18! Tut-tut!).

* * *

The foreplay began at breakfast.

Phoebe couldn't say she disapproved (on the contrary, her body approved heartily), but there simply wasn't enough _time_ for this sort of thing in the morning, when they were already dressed and ready to start the day. Gerald was supposed to be looking after the eggs on the stove, not tickling the back of her neck, and if they didn't leave within ten minutes, they might get held up in morning traffic.

Phoebe scratched another number in one of the tiny boxes of the sudoku puzzle, her game of choice when jumpstarting her brain in the morning. She could ignore the tickling easily enough, but lips were another story. Gerald pecked kisses at her nape, charting a route to her jawline. Her hard-fought concentration on her puzzle (almost done!) was slowly drifting.

"I have a meeting today, first thing," she said. "I can't be late."

This didn't do much to deter him; his lips trailed closer and closer to hers. Phoebe let the kiss happen, savoring Gerald's enthusiasm and the zesty taste of his mouthwash. They broke lip contact and locked eyes. It was one of those long, heated gazes where all you can do is hold your breath and anticipate what fantastic things might come next...

Finally, Phoebe smiled brightly and said, "The eggs are burning."

After a hurried, burnt breakfast half-eaten over the sink, they were out the door. Conveniently, they worked in the same building, albeit different departments, so they could drive together in Phoebe's car. It being a Friday, there was a lot of work to be done if she wanted to remain work-free for the weekend, and she recited these things aloud to Gerald to better inscribe them into her brain.

"But there's something I'm forgetting," Phoebe said with careful enunciation. "Did I finish arranging Mr Ackerman's travel schedules for the executive conference? Yes, I'm quite certain I did. So what am I forgetting...?"

Leaning back in the passenger's seat, Gerald dropped his magazine. "Don't ask me, I'm just an accountant on the second floor. Damn good accountant! But still just an accountant."

"Oh no..."

Traffic was slowing to a standstill. She'd even taken a detour this time, the one recommended by Helga (who by the way had no driver's license), in hopes of avoiding traffic jams caused by the construction on 29th street, but this route didn't seem any better than yesterday's.

"Hey, is that Curly?" Gerald suddenly asked, pointing out the driver's side window.

Phoebe turned. "Where?" The next car over held a lady and a young girl, and Phoebe saw nobody that remotely resembled Curly. But Gerald's hidden agenda soon became apparent when a seatbelt unclicked and lips latched on to Phoebe's exposed neck.

"You honestly think this is the time and place?" she asked.

"Can't think of anything better to do."

"Oh, that's romantic..."

They kissed languidly, a slow dance of tongues, Phoebe thumbs smoothing back and forth over his freshly shaven jawline. The kiss broke with a giggle when Gerald's fingertips skimmed that ticklish spot behind her knee. She swatted at him with one hand but the other continued up the side of his face, along his hairline. It could not be denied. Gerald Johanssen was a sexy, sexy man. If she had any talent for poetry, she could compose sonnets on his dimples alone...

His hand snaked its way below the bottom hem of her skirt.

"Gerald..."

"Phoebe."

Phoebe kept her knees closed to ensure Gerald's hand couldn't reach any place more distracting than where it already was. He tried anyway, of course, so she grabbed his wrist and pushed it away in an effort to stop the show, but the scrape of teeth against her neck convinced her to, maybe, sort of, just let the show go on a little longer...

"No hickeys," Phoebe ordered.

The honk of a car horn startled her into opening her eyes, and she saw the lady in the next car looking shocked and appalled, holding a hand over her child's eyes to protect him from Phoebe and Gerald's raunchy display.

She gathered her resolve and pushed Gerald away.

He smiled and waved at the mother and son innocently, as if he had not been about to stick his hand up his wife's skirt moments before.

:::

As if being late for the meeting wasn't bad enough, all throughout it she was distracted with thoughts of Gerald's fingers, and how it would've felt had they made it to their initial destination. Even now, hours later at her desk, she only lasted ten minutes at a time without naughty ideas creeping to the forefront of her focus.

Honestly, had he been _trying_ to throw her off course for the entire day?

Just as this thought popped in her head, a message popped up in the corner of her computer screen, indicating she had a new e-mail from Gerald Johanssen. He really had no work-related reason to contact her in the middle of the day (he was just a lowly accountant, after all), which meant the e-mail must be personal. Phoebe had a feeling it would be very personal. She was almost hesitant to click it, 'almost' being the key word here.

_I want you._ That was all it said. Thankfully Phoebe had a desk plenty far from her co-workers, so she didn't have to peer around for prying onlookers. Gerald, however, worked inside a cubicle. Phoebe could only hope nobody walked by and caught him typing this nonsense. Phoebe typed her reply.

_Well, you can't have me, I'm working._

She sent it quickly and returned to her work. It was hardly a minute before the next e-mail came.

_I need you._

Phoebe hid her exasperated smile behind her hand.

_You don't. You need oxygen, H2O, sunshine, food. You need to stop using bedroom talk in the workplace._

A phone call from a few floors up busied Phoebe for the next few minutes. Then she checked to see if Gerald was still persisting.

_I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop thinking about how it feels when you touch me. Meet me in the janitor's closet on the third floor._

Honestly!

_Gerald, we are working! Would you please maintain some minuscule thread of professionalism? Please stop e-mailing, we'll continue this later, like I said._

Men were so impatient sometimes.

:::

Phoebe still had that niggling feeling she was forgetting something. Unfortunately, there was little she could do but hope vainly she would remember before it was too late. Eyes weary from hours of computer work, Phoebe was glad to escape the crowded elevator at the end of the workday, and finally lay eyes on her husband again.

Gerald broke away from his group of co-workers with manly gestures of departure and crossed the entrance hall, meeting Phoebe with a smile.

"Finally done with all your important _executive_ obligations?" he asked, and finished in a low voice near her ear, "My fair Senorita. Rawrr."

"I hope so." Phoebe dug into purse for her car keys while Gerald closed in on her left, wrapping a strong arm around her waist. She shook her head. "Mada desu, _Gerald-san_, there's still one last thing on the agenda."

"Huh?"

She leveled him with a stare. "Helga and Arnold. Dinner?" she reminded, much to Gerald's chagrin. His face fell. "And we need to hurry if we want to get home, change clothes, and get to the restaurant on time."

Gerald expression conveyed the "Aww, _man_" that he left unsaid in the midst of people rushing by, out the revolving doors. Awash with sympathy that he had clearly forgotten all about dinner plans, Phoebe took his hand and leaned in close to say, "Don't worry. Once dinner's over, we'll have a plentitude of time to ourselves."

She gave his hand an extra squeeze.

If they were lucky, dinner would only last half an hour.

:::

No such luck. It was quite apparent, after fifty-eight minutes of confabulation, that Helga and Arnold were starving for social intercourse and wanted to prolong dinner as much as humanly possible.

"Oh, look at the time," Phoebe cut in, "I think maybe--"

"What, are you kidding?" Helga said. "We haven't had dessert yet."

"Oh, that's fine, Helga, really--"

"Dessert is the best part of the meal, Pheebs. C'mon, this place has the _best_ chocolate souffle. Live a little!"

Phoebe's plans were to go home and live quite a lot, actually, but she reluctantly agreed to stay. They gave their order to the waiter with the exceptionally large nose (--"you see the schnozzle on that guy? Holy mackerel!"--) and carried on with their conversations (--"it's a groundless presumption perpetuated by men who feel the need to overcompensate to attract a partner; a man's nose size has absolutely nothing to do with the size of his--") as they waited for their desserts. The waiter returned and delivered said desserts with a smile. They all dug in, Helga unleashing a moan of delight.

"God, this stuff hits the spot every time."

Arnold nodded. "It's really good."

"Oh, put a sock in it," Helga snapped.

Spoon halfway to his mouth, Arnold sat with his jaw hanging open for numerous seconds before replacing the utensil gently back into his bowl. "Helga, I was agreeing with you," Arnold reasoned. "You can't beat me up for agreeing with you."

"Says who? Maybe if you'd offer up an _genuine opinion_ once in a while..."

"What does that mean?" Arnold asked, annoyed.

"Maybe it means I'm sick and tired of hearing 'you're right, Helga', 'whatever you say, Helga'. You're not my dog, football-head! You're allowed to have an opinion, for cripe's sake."

"So, what, I can't even like the same chocolate souffle as you?"

"I think the souffle thing kind of sucks," offered Gerald.

"_Thank_ you, Gerald," Helga said.

"I was promoted to executive assistant manager!" Phoebe said in a hurry. She wasn't one to brag, but a change of conversation was certainly called for.

"Way to go, Pheebs!" Helga praised, picking up her wine glass and clinking it against Phoebe's. "You'll be the Big Cheese in no time."

A round of congratulations was followed by a short silence, which Gerald brought to an end with:

"Isn't anyone gonna ask me how _my_ job's goin'?"

Arnold looked at him blankly. "But you're just an accountant."

"A damn good one!" Gerald spluttered.

He was so cute when he got defensive. Phoebe patted Gerald's hand. "Of course you are, honey."

To everyone's surprise, Gerald abruptly rose from the table. "Just remembered--I was supposed to bring Sid his tent back before his, uh, his trip tomorrow. I'd better go do that. No, you stay," he said when Phoebe reached for her coat. "Enjoy yourself. You guys can get her home safe, right?"

Helga looked delighted that she didn't have to be alone with her husband just yet. She jabbed him in his side with her elbow.

"Ow! I mean sure, man," Arnold agreed. "We'll take her home."

Just as Gerald was pulling his coat on, the waiter placed the bill on the table. Phoebe reached for her purse.

"Don't worry, I'll get it," Gerald said, pulling out money and then smacking his wallet shut with unnecessary force. Phoebe watched on as Gerald had a near collision with an elderly couple in his haste toward the exit.

Arnold and Helga, oblivious to any hovering tensions except their own, carried on nattering and bickering. Phoebe chimed in politely when necessary; her full attention, however, could not be conjured up again, lost as she was in thoughts of Gerald. The past few days flashed through her mind, scene by scene, as she evaluated any little instance that may have contributed to Gerald's manifestation. His sensitivity about his job, his insistence on paying... it was now obvious to Phoebe that Gerald was trying to compensate. That she may have caused her husband to feel inadequate weighed heavy on Phoebe's mind and heart.

A day that started out with so much promise had all-too-quickly spiraled into disaster.

:::

From the backseat, Phoebe could spy Arnold rubbing the spot on his ribs where Helga had elbowed him. He spoke just loud enough to be heard over the soft jazz susurrating from the speakers.

"No, really. I think I'm getting a bruise."

Helga rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Sorry." Her profile was outlined in orange as they drove past a neon sign. "I guess I'll just have to make it up to you when we get home."

Phoebe caught the slight quirk of Arnold's lip as he agreed, "I guess so."

Helga's eyes twinkled, eyeing her husband with new interest. The remainder of the ride was quiet. Arnold and Helga could do little but glance lusty looks at one another, and Phoebe could do little but turn things over in her mind. When they reached Phoebe's brownstone, Helga hugged her friend goodbye, wearing the smile of a woman who knew her evening activities were not yet over.

Phoebe stepped into her silent, unilluminated house.

There was mail on the floor, but Phoebe ignored it, opting instead to drop on the couch and attempt to operate the remote in the dark. She'd slaved her butt off today so she wouldn't have any work to take home over the weekend, so she could spend quality time with her husband, and look at where it left her: sitting in front of the television by herself. Maybe she should have had it off with Gerald in the janitor's closet and been done with it.

She flipped through the channels with some sort of predetermined rhythm until finally, a show depicting a couple kissing heatedly grabbed her interest.

In the privacy of her living room, Phoebe indulged in the lustful exchange. She reclined heavily against her couch cushions, unmoving except for the slight lift of her chest with each breath. She came to a decision, suddenly, and patted around until she found her purse wherein lie her cell phone. She turned the television volume down but still watched the bodies pressing against one another.

Phone pressed to her ear, she listened as the other end rang. There was a click, then sounds of traffic. It took Gerald a while to answer. "Yeah?"

"Where are you?"

"Corner of 10th and Richmond."

The scene on the television was over, but Phoebe was just getting started. She flipped the television power off and sauntered upstairs toward the bedroom, peeling off her socks and unbuttoning her blouse one-handed. She let her hair loose from its bun and lay back on the bed. The cool comforter thrilled her exposed skin.

"When will you get home?" she asked in a low, suggestive voice.

"I don't know, five or ten minutes?" he answered distractedly.

She ran her fingers lightly up and down her torso. "Don't know if I can wait that long."

She dipped her fingers just below the waistline of her pants, allowing a little "mmm" sound to escape her lips. It was a distinct sound, something that conveyed more meaning than words ever could, something Gerald alone was informed enough to interpret correctly.

"Hey, who said you could get started without me?"

Before she could reply, there was a squeal of tires from the other end and a low "whoa" from Gerald. Phoebe frowned.

"Gerald Johanssen, you'd better not be driving recklessly."

"It ain't recklessness, baby. It's bold determination."

"Synonymous," she managed. "Mmm..."

From the other line came the sound of an engine expiring, then a door slamming, then the _reep-reep_ of locking the door with the keychain remote.

Phoebe went rigid, all senses becoming alert. It was almost like fear: this fired up, expectant feeling. This feeling of waiting for the door downstairs to open. Anticipating the moment he'd appear in that doorway and find her like this, waiting and ready. She bit her nails and listened carefully. His breath on the other end was fast and heavy.

The front door creaked open and slammed shut. Footsteps bounded up the stairs.

And there he was.

They flipped their phones shut simultaneously with a resounding _snap_. In no time, he was pinning her hands against the blanket, conquering her mouth with his own, all that 'bold determination' finally being given an outlet. And Phoebe invited it, grinding up against his body. He let go of one hand to bury his fingers in her hair, and her freed hand went straight for his belt.

They arranged themselves comfortably on the bed, and all the rushed touches dialed down to a more languid and appreciative tempo. He rubbed his cheek against her chest like an affectionate animal, the acute beginnings of a beard scratching her skin through her shirt. A mild, exciting kind of pain.

"I'm sorry I offended you earlier," said Phoebe.

Gerald brushed it off. "No big."

"You're... oh god, you're incredible. Mmm, Gerald..."

His breath puffed across her skin as his lips claimed territory. Her body felt like a furnace, turning the sheets beneath her desert-hot, until she felt as though were melting into a whole new state of being. Just as Gerald was at her stomach, pushing up her shirt, Phoebe remembered something.

"Wait!" she exclaimed.

"Nnnngh."

"Just remembered," she said through heavy intakes of breath, "Melting... candles! I need to--oh Gerald, wait, I'm trying to tell you something... I n-need to order candles for the demonstration... sound strange, but it's important, it's for the executive c-conference... I have to do it tomorrow, I can't forget."

"Nnnnngh."

"Will you remember to remind me? Maybe I should... maybe I should write this down..."

"I'll remember, I'll remember!" Gerald insisted, hands clutching her hips, "Phoebe, only _you_ would be thinking about work when we're about to have sex. Please, Pheebs... please..."

Both hands clutching the blanket under her, she pushed up into his touch, physical permission that he could continue. They carried on as they were, exploring each other, driving each other to new levels of sentience. Phoebe reached that trembling acme of pleasure at almost the same time he did, strong currents shooting throughout her body. It was one of those orgasms you never, ever wanted to end.

But it did end. It faded and left behind a tingling afterglow as they collapsed side by side.

"Conference," Gerald mumbled, eyes closed, "Candles."

"Tomorrow," Phoebe said, an unexpected rasp in her voice. "I'll take care of it tomorrow."

Hopefully she would still remember tomorrow. But reciting things to Gerald always helped better etch them into her memory, so Phoebe let her weight slump into the mattress with no worries lingering her mind. She drifted off, the sounds and smells of what they'd done still echoing in her senses.


End file.
